


In Stitches

by TheBasilRathbone



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Cure for Loneliness, Emotional and physical healing, First Meeting, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reunion, post-florida
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-07 10:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20307946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBasilRathbone/pseuds/TheBasilRathbone
Summary: The first time they meet, Raymond has Kevin in stitches.When they reunite after nearly a year apart upon the Nine-Nine's return from Florida, Raymond is the one with stitches.





	1. Chapter 1

"Holt!" the sergeant called from across the bullpen. "Phone's for you!" 

He hadn't been doing anything of grave importance, but the interruption of his work was nevertheless an irritant. He hadn't decided if being gay or being black was the larger contributing factor to his squad's constant tendency to pass off the least-desirable office tasks to him, but perhaps differentiating between prejudices wasn't the best use of his time. 

"Raymond Holt, NYPD," he said into the phone, waiting for a tedious task from a superior, or perhaps a rambling speech from a lunatic on LSD claiming that his neighbour was sneaking into his apartment at night to move around his walls. 

"Hello, Detective Holt. My name is Kevin Cozner, I'm writing a piece for the New Yorker and was hoping someone might be able to answer a few questions for me." 

Holt glanced over his shoulder. Several members of the office were staring at him, smug smirks painted across their faces. Ah. That's what this was. A nosy reporter they considered dull and a waste of time was on the line, and they'd passed off the duty to him. 

He cleared his throat. "Look, Mr. _Cozner. _I'm afraid information regarding our cases is confidential-"

"Forgive me," the voice on the other line says, soothingly monotonous. "I'm well aware of the confidentiality policy of the NYPD. No, no, I'm a Classicist. I'm doing a piece on the Praetorian Guard in Rome at the beginning of the common era, and wanted some anecdotes regarding the modern NYPD. To add a..." 

"...more relatable angle for wider, non-scholastic readership, yes," Holt finished. 

"Yes," Cozner repeated. His tone hadn't changed, but Holt thought he could detect a slightly relieved air to his voice. Undoubtedly, whomever he had spoken with before Holt hadn't had much use for a Classicist writing an intellectual food-for-thought piece. For any intellectual topic, really. Holt glanced at the stack of paperwork in the wire basket on his desk. 

"I could spare a few moments to answer some of your questions," he replied, refusing to give the other officers the satisfaction of appearing disgruntled. 

There's a sound of rustling pages over the line, as Mr. Cozner evidently had begun flipping through his notes. "I'm pleased to hear it, Mr. Holt. Thank you. I was hoping that we could begin with the procedure for assignations of cases. Are such things assigned merely by which employee is most readily available, or is it a more complex system based on skill set and strengths?"

"Well, such things differ by precinct, as well as by department." 

"Hm," Cozner said, sounding as though he expected the complex answer but was hoping for something rather easier to sum up in his article. 

"It can depend largely on the Captain and how he runs his staff," Holt continued, once again glancing at the pile of dull cases on his desk and then up to his own pale, middle-aged Captain, wedding band wedged tight over his pudgy fingers. "You know. Whether he's more of a Trajan or a Nero." 

There was a slight pause, and then Raymond could _hear _the smile the journalist's voice when he said, "my goodness. Hopefully there are no Neros on staff at the NYPD." 

"Oh, nothing quite so bloody. But I did hear talks of starting a Great Fire in Brooklyn to make room for larger facilities." 

There's the slightest exhale of breath over the line, fast enough that Holt is sure it was a laugh. "Well, Detective Holt, I wish you the best on your boss's reign of terror."

Holt glanced over his shoulder again, ensuring their words are private. The other men of the precinct have seem to have lost interest. "Oh, I'll be alright. I'm not a Christian." 

And it went on. Despite the inane questions about day-to-day police tasks, Raymond found himself nearly enjoying the interview. Or rather, enjoying how he can seem to so easily amuse Mr. Cozner. He'd try to joke around at work, be one of the 'gang,' but the force didn't care for his style of humour, and it seemed easier to just remain tight-lipped and keep his head down. Cozner, on the other hand, had no trouble expressing his mirth at Holt's quips, and the conversation began to feel closer to an exhilarating tennis match than an interview. 

As the conversation waned from a more serious discussion on the lack of women in the NYPD, Holt ended with a rather dry comment about "Deborah, who was hired over a dozen women with excellent merit due to a rather...Antony and Cleopatra scenario. Though I do hope that last comment is off-the-record." 

"How scandalous," Cozner replied. "And of course. I'm a Classicist, not a journalist, not to fear. I've no interest in exposing any gossip of your precinct. We only gossip about the long-since-dead. But for your sake, I do hope you're not the Antony in this 'Antony and Cleopatra' scenario." 

"_That truth should be silent I almost forgot,_" he quoted, and then paused. Things had been so friendly and cordial, Raymond thought for a long moment about playing along. It was barely even a comment about his personal life, to throw out another joke could hardly count as avoiding the topic. But his coming out had been a statement, and he refused to stay in the closet for matters of convenience. Were he a straight male cop, would he have taken this opportunity to jokingly brag about his sexual prowess? Likely. "As a matter of fact, I am one of the few openly gay members of the NYPD." Likely only, but he wasn't about to make a statement to a reporter that he could not say with absolute certainty. 

"Oh," said Kevin. 

Raymond waited for the excuses, the abrupt ending to conversation, the hurried apologies of something suddenly coming up that would cut the interview short. Instead, Kevin only said, "that's quite an accomplishment. I live in fear of my own parents discovering my sexuality, I can only imagine having my work life steeped in similar prejudices." 

_Oh. _

And just like that, they picked up where they left off, though Raymond now found that his dry comments slid easily into the flirtatious realm, and Kevin certainly didn't seem to mind, or make any comments to put him off. 

What was supposed to be a short interview lasted nearly an hour, and when Cozner's questioning became less linear and more obscure, Holt hoped that he could take that as a sign that Kevin was just as eager to stay on the line as Holt himself. 

"Well...I suppose I should let you go. It was a pleasure, Detective Holt. Really. I'm sure I've never met a police officer with quite so much knowledge of Classics."

"Oh, I wish I could claim a far better knowledge. It's merely an interest, never a topic of real study." There was a pause, and Holt felt something building in his chest. He plucked the telephone cord absentmindedly, building his courage. "Perhaps...you could give me a history lesson. Say, over a drink?"

There was a short pause over the line. "Tonight?" Cozner said at last, and Holt felt a rush of relief. "I have a Greek study group with some of my students until seven, but I have no other plans."

"How about nine?"

* * *

It was risky, Raymond would realize, much in the same way that agreeing to a blind date was risky. Kevin Cozner could have been anyone, could have been someone he was not in the least attracted to, though their shared humour and dry wit may have already endeared Cozner to him. But nevertheless, physical attraction, however shallow, could not be totally discounted as irrelevant, no matter what romantics said. It was biology. Evolutionary principles remained despite the lack of procreation that could occur between two creatures of the same gender. 

He knew Kevin the moment he walked in the door. Holt wasn't sure how, but he knew. Despite the trend for long hair, his date's own was cropped neatly and combed. He had a sweater in a sensible colour over a neutral button-up shirt, his slacks a textured tweed that screamed of East-Coast academia. 

And he was young. Far younger than expected. Perhaps even a year or two younger than Raymond himself, if he had to guess. 

It suddenly occurred to Raymond, as he raised his hand slightly to draw his date's attention, that he had never told Kevin that he was black. 

How nice it would be, to be able to pretend that such a thing was irrelevant. But in the real world, especially when meeting a white date for a drink when said date worked in a field that was the pinnacle of old-school conservatism, Raymond knew that it could matter very much. 

But Kevin caught sight of his slight gesture, took one look at him, and smiled softly, his nervous stance sinking into something more relaxed, though his impressive posture never faltered as he made his way over to the table. 

He was even better looking up close. 

"Raymond Holt?" he asked, offering his hand to shake. Firm grip, not crushing, not overcompensating. Dry and pleasant. "I'm Kevin Cozner."

"Hello, Kevin Cozner," he greeted in return. "I'm Raymond Holt." 

* * *

"I don't normally do this," Kevin informed him calmly, a declaration of chastity that was rather undercut by his legs being wrapped around Raymond's waist. They'd ended up back at Raymond's apartment under the cliched guise of 'coffee.' Raymond normally hated cliches, but he knew this was how these dating rituals were performed. 

And so there was here, leaning over Kevin on his firm mattress after they'd swept away a smattering of books, patiently listening to Kevin's shy excuses whilst he simultaneously unbuttoned Raymond's shirt. 

"Mm," Raymond replied, pulling Kevin up far enough to pull the merino wool sweater up over his head. 

They go to reach for the buttons on one another's trousers, but Kevin paused. "I'm clean," he declared, a familiar phrase these past few years in not only the gay community but for all sexual partners during the rising of the continuing AIDS crisis. "I've been tested. Since my last...partner. Though protection is a non-negotiable."

"Yes," Raymond acknowledged. "I have been, as well. And I agree." Witty and sharp but still sensible. Kevin certainly was the whole package, wasn't he? 

They end the night laying beside one another, on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, breath heavy. 

"That was..." Kevin began, still panting. "Quite satisfactory." 

High praise indeed. "I would go so far as to say more than satisfactory."

* * *

He had awoken to an empty bed, and a heavy feeling in his gut had settled in. He had barely known the man, it was too soon to be attached, but he had rarely clicked with another human being as he had with Kevin last night. 

He was already planning on ways to casually track down Kevin's contact information when the man in question stepped into the room, carrying a two bowls and wearing his dressing gown, worn and old as it was. 

"I hope I haven't overstepped," Kevin said awkwardly, handing him the bowl. Oatmeal, expertly cooked. "I don't do this often. I wasn't sure if I should just...go, or..."

"I'm glad you didn't," he said firmly, and Kevin gave him a shy smile. They ate their breakfast in bed (a wild morning after a wild night) and reluctantly dressed, Holt offering to walk him out, though Kevin insisted on leaving alone, so as not to make his neighbours suspicious about his love life. Holt wasn't particularly worried about what strangers thought about his sexuality, but Kevin was evidently more self-conscious. Interesting. 

Raymond had managed to get Cozner's number on a scrap of paper, his date looking sheepish before adding his address. 

"Oh."

"I know," Kevin responded apologetically. "It's quite a long distance away. I live near the college I am employed by, upstate. I do come into the city once in a while for work, but... I understand if...if you find the distance too inconvenient."

Raymond looked down at the address. Written in cursive. Neat lines, pointed dots, none of that elaborate and excessive curling and flaunting. 

"It is quite a distance. But I'm willing to make it work." 

Kevin smiled. "Yes. I am, as well." 


	2. Chapter 2

At the sound of the front door opening, Kevin froze. Gun hidden in the office. In a pinch, the fire extinguisher under the sink could be used as a bludgeon, or the knives in the block on the countertop could be convenient, and obtained in three steps across the room. The latter were close-range weapons, but certainly better than no weapons at all. 

"Kevin?"

Kevin nearly dropped the plate he was drying in surprise (a figure of speech, of course. He placed it neatly in the drying rack and hung up his dishtowel before heading to the front door). "Raymond?"

Six months. His husband had been in hiding for six months. He'd received a call in Paris, an unknown police officer to inform him that his husband had been shuttled into the Witness Protection Program and that he would receive no further details. 

And there was his husband, looking haggard and worn, his normally immaculate posture forcibly slumped over a pair of crutches, wearing what could only be ill-fitting hospital-issued sweatpants, the thigh of one stretched tight around what appeared to be a bandage.

"Your leg," was all Kevin could manage. "Good heavens, what happened to your leg?!"

"A small incident with a pipe, whilst we were on the run from the local sheriff," Raymond answered easily. "But I would very much rather we have this conversation at a later time." 

"Is anyone with you?" Kevin asked, peering around Raymond, waiting for a cocky Peralta to come jaunting through the door. 

Raymond sent him a pointed look. He hated how it made him squirm, being read so effortlessly. A lifetime of homophobic parents and generally being frowned upon by the general public was enough to make anyone slow to express affection publicly. It had been decades, and they were only now feeling brave enough to share an armrest at the theatre. "Detective Peralta was taken home by Detective Santiago. I doubt any of us will be seeing them for the following days. Sergeant Jeffords dropped me off. I told him that I preferred to enter my home alone, to reunite with my husband."

Kevin crossed the floor in two strides, walking straight into a firm, forceful kiss and then breaking away to bury his face into Raymond's neck. His arms slid cautiously around his husband, taking some of the weight off of his crutches. He can feel Raymond's hands on his back, clutching fistfuls of his sweater. It was telling; Raymond was never so careless about stretching out fabrics. 

"I've missed you," he breathed, sighing as Raymond's fingers slid into the hair at the base of his neck. 

"No need for such dramatic displays," his husband admonished, though the tightening of his embrace let Kevin know that his silent fears had been shared. "Everything is alright. Jimmy Figgis will not be bothering us again."

Cheddar yipped happily at their ankles, shaking his non-existent tail in glee. The poor thing would be ignored for a while longer. 

Kevin helped him to the sofa, fetching his dressing gown and helping him into it. Extra layers in New York, after months in Florida, would be necessary for a while. Soup was quickly procured and eaten, despite Raymond's protests that eating on the sofa was for children home sick from school. Children home sick from school, Kevin reminded him, did not swallow a mouthful of pain medication along with their soup. 

While Kevin had been fantasizing for months about the two of them, home together at last, sitting in the library in their usual spots and reading their respective books, Raymond was far too exhausted after his journey home to be propped up any longer. Some things would have to wait. Kevin helped him hobble up the stairs, Cheddar nipping at their heels. 

Raymond's dressing gown was eased off of his shoulders and hung on its designated hook, and his hospital-issued t-shirt was removed, as well. Kevin retrieved Raymond's pajamas and was reaching for waistband of his husband's horrendous athletic trousers when Raymond's arms extended, as well, reaching to tug at Kevin's belt. 

"Absolutely not," Kevin scolded, swatting his hands away. "You are _injured._"

"This is the only second time that I have seen my husband in eleven months, two weeks, six days, and...eleven hours. I will manage." 

And they do manage. It isn't easy, but the desperation they feel is a wonderful motivator. After dressing afterwards and helping Raymond into his pajamas, they crawl back into bed, Kevin clinging to him like a barnacle, knowing that Raymond will shake him off to sleep, though not quite being able to make himself care in this moment.

"I don't think it's been like that since we first started dating and had to spend weeks apart. Though our situation this time couldn't be remedied by the purchase of Gertie."

"It felt rather like that in Paris, after we had been arguing so often," Raymond commented, brushing his fingers through Kevin's damp hair. "Whatever imbecile thought to romanticize distance in a relationship clearly was a fool." 

Kevin closed his eyes, listening to the thrum of Raymond's heart against his chest. "Absence failed to make your heart grow fonder?"

"Absence made me ache with homesickness," Raymond replied. "I just wanted our routine. I wanted to wake up every morning and brush our teeth in the double sinks. I wanted to feed Cheddar while you went out to get the paper. I wanted to share breakfast at the dining room table and bicker about politics. I will gladly sacrifice exciting sexual reunions for the remainder of my days if it means never being far enough apart to so much as miss one another. I suppose that makes me terribly unromantic." 

Kevin tightened his grip around Raymond's waist. "On the contrary. I think it is one of the most romantic things you have ever said to me."


End file.
